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Bud and harvest, bloom and vintage,
Stamped in clay, a heavenly mintage,
Barn, and mill, and wine-vat's treasures, Earthly goods for earthly lives,
What the dream, but vain rebelling, If from earth we sought to flee?
5T is from it the skies we see.
Wind and frost, and hour and season,
Work with these, as bids thy reason,
Sow thy seed and reap in gladness!
Man himself is all a seed;
Slow the plant to ripeness lead.
HELLVELLYN.— Sir W. Scott.
In 1805, a young gentleman, who was fond of wandering amidst the romantic scenery of the "Lake District," in the counties of Westmoreland and Cumberland, in England, lost his way on the Hellvellyn Mountains, and perished there. Three months afterwards his remains were found, guarded by a faithful terrier-dog, the sole companion of his rambles.
I Climbed the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, Lakes and mountains beneath me gleamed misty and wide;
All was still, save by fits, when the eagle was yelling,
And starting around me the echoes replied. On the right, Striden-edge* round the Red-tarn was
bending, And Cat jhedicam^ its left verge was defending, One huge, nameless rock in the front was ascending, When I marked the sad spot where the wanderer had died.
Dark green was the spot, 'mid the brown mountain heather,
Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretched in decay, Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather,
Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless clay. Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, For, faithful in death, his mute favorite attended, The much-loved remains of her master defended,
And chased the hill-fox and the raven away.
How long didst thou think that his silence was slumber? When the wind waved his garment, how oft didst thou start? How many long days and long weeks didst thou number, Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? And, O, was it meet, that — no requiem read o'er him, No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, And thou, little guardian, alone stretched before him — Unhonored the pilgrim from life should depart?
When a prince to the fate of a peasant has yielded
With scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded,
* Hills in the Lake District.
Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches are
gleaming, In the proudly-arched chapel the banners are beaming, Far down the long aisle sacred music is streaming, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall.
But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature,
To lay down thy head like the meek mountain lamb; When, wildered, he drops from some cliff huge in stature, And draws his last sob by the side of his dam; And more stately thy couch by this desert lake lying, Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam.
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS. — Longfellow.
There is a reaper, whose name is Death,
And, with his sickle keen,
And the flowers that grow between.
"Shall I have nought that is fair?" saith he;
"Have nought but the bearded grain? Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
I will give them all back again."
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
He kissed their drooping leaves; It was for the Lord of Paradise
He bound them in his sheaves
188 THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST.
"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
The reaper said, and smiled;
"They shall all bloom in fields of light,
Transplanted by my care,
These sacred blossoms wear."
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
She knew she should find them all again
O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
The reaper came that day;
And took the flowers away.
THE FLOWERS OF THE FOREST. - Mrs. Cockburn.
I 've seen the smiling of Fortune beguiling,
Sweet is her blessing, and kind her caressing,
I 've seen the forest adorned of the foremost
With flowers of the fairest, both pleasant and gay;Full sweet was their blooming, their scent the air perfuming; But now they are withered, and a' vvede away.
I 've seen the morning with gold the hills adorning, And loud tempest storming before the mid-day; —
I Ve seen Tweed's silver streams, glittering in the sunny beams, Grow drumly* and dark, as he rolled on his way,
O fickle fortune! why this cruel sporting?
O, why thus perplex us poor sons of a day? No more your smiles can cheer me, no more your frowns can fear me,
Since the flowers of the forest are a' wede away.
THE TRAGEDY OP THE LAC DE GAUBE.—MUnes.
The marriage-blessing on their brows,
Across the channel seas,
The pleasant Pyrenees;
A child of joy and life;
A happier English wife.
They loiter not where Argeles,
The chestnut-crested plain,
In pasture, grape, and grain;
Beats strong amid the hills,
That either bosom fills.